Five Times Spock Tried Earth Cuisine
by Amatara
Summary: The tried-and-true five times meme, as applied to TOS Spock  though one bit can be read as ST: Reboot as well .


_Entering_ Starfleet Academy hadn't been the hard part. He'd given the matter considerable thought, after all; he knew he was making the right decision. And what little doubt remained had vanished in that last, furious argument – the one Sarek was refusing to call either an argument _or_ furious, claiming no emotion on his part was involved. Resolve and stubbornness had carried him through the rest: the journey to Earth, registration at the Academy offices, the search for an apartment. None of those steps, monumental though they were, had posed any real difficulty.

No – what was hard were the _small_ things. Like the simple question that, somehow, none of his rigorous preparations had led him to consider: where would he find adequate food here? It wasn't that Vulcan restaurants abounded in the neighborhood, or that the replicators around here were designed to cater to Vulcan needs. His mother's cooking didn't help him either, because she'd adopted Vulcan tastes long ago. But asking for help on such a trivial matter would hardly be dignified. Which was why the first morning after his arrival, Spock found himself hovering beside the replicators, waiting patiently until one of the few hundred people in this wing would order a meal that sounded safe for Vulcan consumption. By the time a senior cadet – looking haggard, as if he had spent the previous night doing something entirely different than sleeping – grumbled the word 'vegetarian', Spock was hungry enough not to be picky. Stepping in behind the last in line, he punched the replicator button and repeated, with a sense that was half anticipation, half illogical triumph:

"Computer - one Hawaiian pizza, vegetarian, cold."

* * *

He'd never had a 'favorite' restaurant; frankly, the concept puzzled him. A restaurant either served acceptable food, or it didn't, and while there were other variables – like efficiency, and convenience in location – that mattered, he could see little point in forming an emotional attachment to something that was simply a place in which to eat. So when one night, as he sat waiting for his meal in an Asian diner he liked to frequent, a junior cadet sat down opposite him and smiled "You were here last night, too, weren't you? Must be your favorite place in town," he didn't quite know what to tell her.

Part of him knew the question was simply the start of a ritual – to socialize, initiate a conversation. It had happened to him before, usually with female students, though there had been some males as well. They would approach him, showing a definite interest in what he was eating, or wearing, or reading, and make a remark about it, out of the blue, expecting him to reciprocate. It was one of the things that continued to surprise him: that, unlike his Vulcan classmates, who had found his being different offensive, many humans seemed _attracted_ to him for just that reason. Most of the times he responded with a cool brush-off, which paradoxically did nothing to discourage people, but as he met this woman's eyes, which were steady and intelligent and as dark as the rest of her, he wasn't quite sure he wanted to. Which, in itself, was slightly alarming for its lack of logical explanation.

To his relief, the waiter arrived just then to take his order.

"I would like a Plomeek soup, please", he stated politely, naming the one item on their menu that wasn't Asian, and the single reason why he came here.

"That's very conservative, isn't it?" the cadet chided, but there was a definite gleam in her eyes. "Don't you think that serving on a Starship will require some – flexibility – where food is concerned?"

Spock inclined his head, mulling it over. "I hadn't considered that, but – yes, I concede you have a point." Holding her look, he surprised himself by asking, "Since this also seems to be a 'favorite place' of yours – would you perhaps have a recommendation?"

"Well…" she smiled, leaned fractionally closer. "What do you say we're both adventurous? I take the Plomeek soup, you take the spiced tofu bami – it's to die for. And if either of us doesn't approve of the choice, we can split down the middle."

That, he had to admit, was eminently logical.

* * *

"Mother – are you sure about this?" Glancing back, hand perched at the replicator button, he tried hard not to look too disapproving. "When you say 'grilled chicken sandwich', you do mean…"

"Yes, Spock," she replied, serene but firm, and not for the first time Spock marveled at the tone of Amanda's voice, how different it sounded when not distorted by subspace connection. "I know it's against Vulcan principles, but this is _replicated_ meat, isn't it? And my own principle has always been that, when 'the cause is sufficient', as Surak himself said –" Her eyes moved off briefly to rest on Sarek, who was sitting up on the biobed, looking pale but comfortable, "Well… a small indulgence can be very satisfying."

Automatically, he found his own eyes gliding towards his father's, looking for support even before he realized he was doing so. Barely a few days after that lifesaving operation, and his transfusion which made it possible, he'd already found himself siding with Sarek on more than one occasion - especially where his mother was concerned. It wasn't that they agreed more often than before – so far, they hadn't made an attempt at _personal_ conversation, which was probably for the best – but rather that all those years away from home had made him forget how much he was his father's child.

Amanda's eyes twinkled as he brought her the sandwich, while Sarek's mouth curved upward in an expression of mild tolerance. "Thank you, Spock," she said and patted his wrist, then motioned he should sit down on the chair beside her. Watching her take a cautious bite, he was surprised not to see a look of disappointment like he'd expected – he had heard both Dr. McCoy and Jim Kirk complain about the chicken sandwiches on more than one occasion – but something very much like melancholy bliss. When she held the sandwich in front of his face, beaming "Oh, Spock, this tastes just like I remember; try it, please," he couldn't find it in his heart not to indulge her in this, too.

The smile he received in return far outweighed the vile taste of cardboard chicken.

* * *

When he told Gillian Taylor – 20th century marine biologist, and not at all a fool – he didn't like Italian, he wasn't, as Jim called it, 'exaggerating'. Nor was he trying to extract himself from what was sure to be an awkward situation. Sharing dinner with Jim Kirk and a woman he obviously fancied would be uncomfortable at the best of times, even without Earth's survival hanging in the balance. Doctor Taylor would need convincing to let them have the whales, and Spock still knew his superior well enough to see he was looking forward to the challenge. On that account, Spock's presence would be disruptive rather than helpful. But that had nothing to do with his answer.

The truth was, the last time he'd tried Italian – on Jim's insistence, and given the outcome, there was no way the man did not remember – hadn't ended very well. It had been a few weeks after the end of their five-year mission, Spock visiting his captain in San Francisco, only to find himself dragged off to a tiny establishment in a decidedly seedy district, which Jim claimed made the best pasta in town. Lacking a good grasp of Italian, and with both Jim and the owner steadfastly refusing to speak Standard, communicating his preference for a vegetarian dish had been difficult to say the least. By the time he realized the sauce was based on seafood, and he was apparently _allergic_ to seafood, it had been far too late to do anything about it. The next few hours, with the long walk back to Jim's apartment as a dubious highlight, were a vague but acutely unpleasant memory. He had not been ill, in the end, but it was a close call – an experience he was not inclined to repeat, despite the apologies Jim had showered him with. Never mind it was irrational to extrapolate from a single event; there was something to be said for caution as well, and trying Italian in an unfamiliar location had been off-limits ever since.

Twentieth century Earth didn't qualify as 'familiar', no matter what Jim Kirk claimed.

* * *

There were no words. None at all for occasions such as this. Just the three of them left now, and two of them through miracles – one of medicine, the other of physics. It was, quite plainly, appropriate for each of them. As was the fate of that other man, the fourth, who had through yet a different miracle survived to see the 24th century, only to give his life to save part of it.

He appreciated Picard had delivered the news personally. After that, there hadn't really been much to do except gather the others, try to make peace with what had happened. Vulcan restraint would not serve him now; he was both Vulcan and human enough to know that.

Which was why he trusted his human friends, and their quintessentially human remedies. In a way, those were appropriate as well.

Bourbon and scotch.

Two brands of emotion, and he relished them both.


End file.
